


Embrace Me, Love Me, Stay With Me

by SweetBunnii



Series: The Last Alive [2]
Category: Original Work, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Almost smut, Beginnings of a relationship, Boys Kissing, Fate & Destiny, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hybrids, Light Angst, M/M, Mutants, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Trans Male Character, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:00:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27049837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetBunnii/pseuds/SweetBunnii
Summary: | Turlough Hills lives up to its name, with a vast land of hilly ground, covered in greens and brush as far as the eye can see. Where the town lies, it looks as if it has been flattened some to accommodate housing and taverns and markets. Even from afar, Basil can tell that it is abundant with people and the idea of that wraps a constrictor snake 'round his stomach and squeezes. That has not changed from day one. Still, Geralt is in there and he so desperately wants to see the man. |
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Basil the Traveler
Series: The Last Alive [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973656
Kudos: 6





	Embrace Me, Love Me, Stay With Me

Geralt had always said that he did not believe in destiny, despite being surrounded by people who blathered on and on about how destiny shapes their lives and leads them down the right paths. And Basil would honestly agree with Geralt, that he does not believe in destiny either, if not for the fact that his journey after splitting paths with the man lead him to a small town in Brugge, situated east of the city, within the hills of Turlough. He had happened to overhear that a certain Witcher was resting there on his way to Dillingen. Some might consider it sorrowing with how quickly he changed routes and began towards Turlough Hills. Basil is no less of a man in saying that, yes, he had missed Geralt's quiet company, and yes, he had been excruciatingly lonely. They had headed in different directions just over a year ago, with himself wandering into Yamurlak in Redania, and the Witcher going to Upper Posada in Dol Blathanna.

After travelling together for nearly eight years, one notices the lack of companion fairly quick. Basil struggles to admit that he had thought about, on many a occasion, turning 'round and running after Geralt because the silence was far too deafening for comfort. Now, though, he thanks the gods and goddess' for leading him towards Geralt's path, and decides that destiny just may be a smidge real. Turlough Hills lives up to its name, with a vast land of hilly ground, covered in greens and brush as far as the eye can see. Where the town lies, it looks as if it has been flattened some to accommodate housing and taverns and markets. Even from afar, Basil can tell that it is abundant with people and the idea of that wraps a constrictor snake 'round his stomach and squeezes. That has not changed from day one. Still, Geralt is in there and he so desperately wants to see the man. A year apart is almost too much to handle.

Basil crosses the hilly path, toiled and trodded on by others to make it a clear soil road, with ease. He thought Turlough would have severe hills like Owl Hills, but these are babe sized compared to those. The terrain is far easier to walk upon than Kaedwen's mountains or Skellige's islands. If he is honest, he is almost expecting a monster to snap out at him or grab at him from the air and carry him off to its lair. It does not happen, though, and he stops in front of the entrance to the town; nothing grand, nothing small, just nothing. Basil breathes deep a moment and keeps forward, glancing from building to building in search for the tavern. With this many people, even the Witcher's musky scent is buried low and hardly there. He spots Roach first, standing idle at the post with other horses, and heads up the ricketing steps.

The door rings with a bell as he opens it and steps inside, signifying his entrance. Not a soul spares a single glance at him, charmed by the bard's songs at the front of the bar. Geralt's scent is strong in here. Basil finds him in the far corner, sitting with a pint of ale and looking broody. What a familiar sight. A welcome sight, in fact. Basil strides across the rotting floors that creak and crack at every step and promptly situates himself right on the Witcher's lap.

"Really," the man grunts, intoned like a question, "You're doing this?"

"I am. It has been a year since we've seen each other," he replies, as if he is referring to the weather.

To make his point stronger, he stares at Geralt until he feels the man sigh and sink lower on the bench.

"I can't stop you anyway," Geralt grumbles and chugs down some of the ale.

"How were your travels?" Basil asks.

He snuggles closer to the warmth the Witcher emits, just enough for him to withstand it without suffering.

"Long. Exhausting. Bard up there came with me for a bit," Geralt says drily, "How were yours?"

"Mmh. Lovely. Full of pitchforks and torches and angry villagers," Basil sighs, resting his head upon the man's burly shoulder.

"Was Redania that awful?" Geralt muses.

"Oh, no. Redania was great. The people of Yamurlak are kindred souls, 'cept for that old man, Abrad, who cannot seem to rest peacefully unless a man's being tortured to death in his presence. I went to Nilfgaard afterwards, simple curiosity really. The rest is not hard to guess."

And it truly isn't. Nilfgaard had greeted him like he had been a wraith or ghoul or drowner or kikimora or graveir. Something that would harm them; kill them.

"Sounds shitty," Geralt hums, taking another sip of ale.

"Very much so. I could use a three day nap just thinking of it," Basil says.

The bard finishes his song, grabs his mug of ale and swings his lute over his shoulder carefully. He bows and bows, thanking the audience as he travels down the tables to reach them.

"I'd ask you if you'd finally tell me how my singing is, but it appears you have a guest," the bard says, in a deep, young voice.

"I'm Basil," he says, "a traveler. Geralt and I travelled together for eight years prior to this year."

"It's already been eight years since '31?" Geralt's eyebrows scrunch up so unnoticably, it is hard to see even without blinking.

Basil takes notice though, "yes. Have you been living with your head in sand, Geralt?"

"Fuck off," Geralt says, rolling his eyes jokingly.

"Just for that, I am not moving until you are leaving this tavern," he jokes back.

"Right, well, my name's Jaskier. I'm a bard, sing a little, if you couldn't tell," Jaskier butts in, not unkindly.

"A pleasure to meet you, Jaskier. I would say Geralt has told me all about you, but he would not have and I was not there when you two met," Basil says lightly.

"Hm."

"That truly sounds like him," Jaskier says.

His eyes crinkle ever so gently with a smile.

"Hm."

Basil turns to Geralt again, "how is Roach the III, by the way? Are you caring for her properly?"

"She's fine," he drawls and all conversation drops into an assuaging silence.

The bard goes out to sing once more to add to his pouch of coin and take all ducat he possibly can from the drunkards. And when they retire from the bar, Basil follows Geralt up to the room he rented out, right beside Jaskier's. Basil finally drops his cloak, at ease to rid of it, and falls back on the bed once they are inside and the door is shut. Geralt takes only a moment longer to strip out of his armor and set his swords aside, unlacing the jerkin with certain care and resting it upon a wooden chair that's falling apart.

"Did you meet Jaskier in Posada?" The wolf asks quietly.

"Came up to me with bread in his pants," Geralt replies shortly, busying himself with his stuff.

Basil puffs out a small laugh at that, "at least you did not kidnap him."

"I was taking you to safety," the man grunts and Basil shifts to the other side of the bed so he can lay back on it too.

"I know," he says, soft, "I missed you, Geralt. I did not enjoy waking alone."

He's pulled closer to the man by a strong arm and he rolls half his body atop the thick, muscled build, entwining one of their legs together. It is not something one would expect Geralt of Rivia to allow, but Basil knows the tethers of their friendship are strong and that Geralt is, indeed, kindhearted. The man doesn't return his words, preferring to speak them silently as he brings a hand up to gently play with the wolf's ears. He smells in need of a bath, dirty and perspired from long journeys, and somehow, it is comforting. It is familiar and precisely what he had been looking for after Nilfgaard months before. His tail sways delicately in content, coarse furs brushing against the backs of his breeches.

"You, sir, are in dire need of a wash," he murmurs, muffled by Geralt's shirt and chest.

"Shut up," Geralt sighs, making the words sound weak and pathetic.

"Well, bathing would help relax you. I am not sure my nose can handle much more of this," Basil retorts.

"Then get off me," Geralt says.

The wolf rolls off him obediently, sinking into the crickety mattress' scratchy linen blankets. Geralt disappears into the side room to bathe and rid himself of any foul stenches he cannot seem to smell. He can hear the man use the Sign of Ignii to light the wood beneath the tub and pump the water from the contraption the tavern has set up with one of their wells. The crank it uses creaks and screeches with each push down and it echoes into the room. Basil listens to Geralt undress, unlacing the ties to his boots and setting them next to an extra chair. His ears twitch as Geralt slips his shirt off after popping the buttons open and the natural smell of his skin fills the area. It is a tad lonely and sad, with a hint of metal and sweat.

Basil stretches out on the bed and his hands knock against the headboard, knees tucking up so his thighs press on his stomach. The position is surprisingly comfortable. His eyes flutter shut as he listens to Geralt wash, sighing through his nose. If he is honest, the bed smells no better than the witcher had, but it is tolerable. He sits up after a few moments, when his arms begin to tingle and Geralt comes back out, just his smallclothes and breeches on, unlaced. His snowy hair is damp, dripping a bit and curling, and his filled, muscled chest is shimmering only a little with dew. The man stops at the edge of the bed and Basil reaches up to wring his arms 'round his neck. Geralt takes pity in their differences in height, bending down a slight so their lips can meet. The wolf moans gently, appreciatively at the contact.

Heavy hands snake 'round his waist and rest on his bum, massaging at the covered flesh carefully. Basil arches into the touch, heat pooling thick in his abdomen and swirling about. Their kiss breaks before it escalates too much and makes them both uncomfortable.

"You think Jaskier would lose his marbles if he saw us?" Basil mumbles, distracted by the witcher's hands.

"He might want to join in," Geralt replies, voice rough with lust.

"No," the wolf immediately whines, "mine."

He pulls himself closer to the taller man and gets a hearty, short laugh in response. Basil noses at Geralt's stubbled jaw, ears flit back against his hair in appall at the joking comment.

"I was pulling your leg," Geralt says, "he ever tries to touch what's mine, I'll kill him."

"Killing him is not necessary," Basil says, ignoring the way his cheeks go ablaze and his stomach squirms in delight at the words specifically involving _touch_ and _mine_.

Geralt's hands squeeze his arse, knocks their hips together, and has the wolf dropping his head and biting his lip. The _thing_ , as Basil so enjoys calling it, Geralt hides in his pants is chubbed up, not at full mast and still damned _thick_. It has been an entire year since Basil has had Geralt's cock in him and he is not sure he can wait any longer.

"You're so wet, I can smell it," the witcher groans near his ear, and he is right.

Truthfully, Basil might already be soaking through his smallclothes with how wet he is. He moans again, bit more breathless than before, when Geralt's hands wander up his hips and waist to tug his sleeved shirt off. The lightly chilled air nips at his pale skin, giving it faint chicken skin and making his nipples pebble. Of course, the man _must_ pause to thumb at them, simply to make his partner whine.

" _Geralt_."

"I'm here," Geralt murmurs, lifting the rest of the sleeved shirt up and over and tossing it onto the rotting floor boards.

"I missed you," Basil gasps softly, eyes misting, "I was lonely, Geralt."

"I know."

Geralt kisses him again and the shorter whimpers into it, eyelids fluttering shut. He hasn't a clue how long it has been since he has felt this lonely, since he has felt so overwhelmed from simple skinship. The witcher parts, presses another soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. The tears that had gathered, bridged across Basil's lower lids, fall, trembling down his cheeks. Geralt brings a hand up to wipe them away, gentle as he's always been.

"I'm here," he repeats quietly.

"Love me, please?" Basil shakes, looking up at the man with his shimmering, amber iris'.

"Always," Geralt says.


End file.
